Jointly and Severally

Alex

We like the same things, Lexi and me. Similar things. Or rather, we enjoy the same things, but differently. Take shopping. I love those mounds of produce, skins of dimpled orange, crinkled green, shining red, round shapes, rod shapes, cone shapes, I love to imagine the ripeness of the flesh inside as I squeeze an avocado, or how it’s going to feel to slice into that aubergine, how the smell seeping out when I split open the cells of that leek with my knife is going to kick-start my appetite. I love planning out, in my head, what I’m going to do with all that goodness that I see in front of me. It kind of makes me feel alive. Lexi is the same, except she’s got her eye on the shoppers. Me? I’m dreaming of hearty vegetable stew, but Lexi, she’s more about stewing hearts.

We used to be more the same page. Hardly surprising given that there was no “we” about it. We were just “I” then. We’re all for respecting pronouns. Things change, don’t they? Shit happens? Well, shit happened to us. It’s the kind of thing we’re told could happen, but we believe probably won’t. Not to us. Not if we’re good girls, don’t dress like that, don’t talk like that, don’t put out too easy, not if we stay in the light and check in with our friends and call our mums on Sundays. But it did. Happen to us. Third date, dining table cleared of junk mail and bills, candles at the ready, dicing the onions for a home cooked chilli. He came at us - no, he came at me. Both of me. Sorry, where was I? Yes, he came at me fast and I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t interested in yes, or no, or playing the game of maybe later, maybe next time, maybe never. He was intent. You know it, when someone is intent. You can tell.

I wasn’t completely powerless. I felt like I had a choice. I could choose to acquiesce, tell myself this was passion, this was what I wanted, that this chafing dryness was what they meant when they said “rough”. Or I could choose to protest, to punch with arms I had thought were strong until that moment, to raise a voice I had thought was strong, until that moment, to scream and thrash and birth a story of violation I did not want to hear of myself. What I didn’t realise was that I had third option. But Lexi did.

In the end, he barely touched me. The knife, sharp and shimmering with onion juice, entered his gut far more easily that we thought it would. Pushed through a thin resistance, cloth then skin, and into oozing flesh, parting the fibres of thick muscle like it had finally been allowed to show it’s colours, hitting softer organs behind and bathing in a well of blood, like a magnet pulling its destiny home.

I was horrified. Obviously. I mean, the bastard had it coming. I hate to use that language here, but he really WAS asking for it. But that we liked it? Horrified. I just felt awful. And then I didn’t. And then I did again. And then I didn’t. Our hands kept remembering that subtle give as we punctured the skin, that sense of certainty as the blade penetrated, the race of our heart as we held the hilt, fist against flesh, for one extra second, fast and strong and alive with power.

I had trouble sleeping, at first. But we reached a solution. About a week after the shit that happened happened, we simply got up on opposite sides of our bed. Lexi rose first and took all that weight with her into the ensuite, leaving me in bed just feeling terrible about what happened and not how I felt about it. It was such a relief for me, and she didn’t seem at all troubled by her side of the bargain, having left all the bad feeling for what had happened with me and kept only the thrill of the thing for herself. A win win if you will.

Lexi

It’s not like there isn’t a precedent for this kind of a set up. And yes, I know, that didn’t end well, but this is going to be different. It’s a different age, isn’t it? Attitudes have changed. There is a general consensus that people should be allowed to be who they are. Except, you can tackle all those “isms” on the outside, but that internal voice, that’s harder to conquer. Alex has a bad case of internalised moralism. Ideologism. What would you call it? Anyway, that storm of self-disgust built and built until we were torn asunder as they say. Got to admit, I didn’t notice at first. I rolled out of bed to go to the bathroom and just felt lighter. Less tumultuous. Clearer in my head. I literally didn’t notice Alex had stayed in bed until I came back in to find our phone. Did I freak out? Actually it was kind of erotic.

I have to admit, Alex was the breadwinner. And the cook. I had other things to attend to. Mostly, we just shared everything; clothes, shoes, toiletries. We ended up buying a second phone, another toothbrush, and a second set of knives. She used the new ones. It turned out I have a bit of a sentimental attachment to the old set. And, she kind of babies me. I always get what I want.

I think she liked to see me as a baby. As if I’m not the same age as she is. As if I came out of nowhere, born of circumstance. She’d like to think that. And of course, if I’m a baby, then I’ll learn, right?

Who’s gonna break it to her? Maybe she’s right, to be fair. But I reckon we’ve both done a lot of learning already. But now it feels like she hasn’t got room for more. Or maybe she hasn’t got a taste for more. I, on the other hand, am finally free to take my lessons outside the orthodoxy.

I accept that there is an implication to my behaviour. People do get hurt. Like, quite hurt. Or dead. Mainly dead. It comes to us all! And I just like doing it. I like the feel, I like the smells, I like the noises, I like that little flare of invincibility that washes over me just in that instant. I don’t like the cleanup. Hate that. It’s kind of like washing the bath out after you’ve used it. It really detracts from the pleasure. Nevertheless, I do not expect somebody else to clean up my mess.

Alex knew. I knew she knew, she knew I knew she knew. We chose not to talk about it.

Alex

You can’t be the moral arbitrator of somebody else’s life. You don’t know what somebody else is going through. Except I do. Or did. Lexi has not had a bad life. We grew up well provided for, our parents loved me. We had clear boundaries. I’m not saying nothing bad ever happened, but it’s hard to justify Lexi.

What didn’t help was the jealousy. She kind of took the fun part. Not the board-games and sledging in the winter fun part. I got to keep that. I mean the visceral unschooled pleasure part. I got coffee, I played tennis, I saw a movie, and I didn’t worry about myself. Like, who am I? What am I capable of? But that bit where pleasure sits deep in the core of the pelvis, smouldering like the ever-ready fire in a dragon’s throat? That, she got in the settlement.

I had suspicions. She was out a lot when I got home. And she never cooked.

Lexi

Do I care? Of course I do. Everyone likes to have someone to come home to, to share things with. To take that away, well it’s not fair is it.

Alex

They were more than suspicions. I knew. Of course I knew. And I knew it was my fault too. If I’d been able to reconcile myself to what happened, to chalk that surge of glory up to adrenaline, or justice, or protective instinct, I could have stopped at all. I deplore that weakness in myself. Which was why I handed myself in. I didn’t know where the bodies were, I didn’t even know who they were, but they didn’t seem to care too much given that I matched the witness descriptions, the CCTV footage, the fingerprints at every bloody crime scene. I always did like to cut corners on cleaning.

I did feel lighter again. At first. But the thing is, it’s my fault, isn’t it? That she’s still out there, doing what she’s doing? If I could have just put up with the guilt and stayed.

I miss her. She brought a bit of body to life, a bit of excitement.

Lexi

I don’t know what she thought she was going to achieve. I remember what it was like though, wanting to ease the guilt. Once, when I was nine, my mother caught me stealing make up from her purse. The guilt was horrendous, that I could be the type of person who stole from her own mother. I used all the pocket money I had saved to replace one lipstick. Just one lipstick. I was so angry I went outside and stomped on a line of ants. That kind of thing bothers me less now. I have had to get a job though. And I miss her. She was easy to be with. Kind of steadying. We like the same things, Alex and I.